Three weeks on First: A story of the Pink Girls and a Prequel to the Story of the Love of My Life

ImageMelancholy sweeps through you the day after. The chaotic flashes of last night punctuated neatly by flustered witnesses telling the story. We had fun and you’ll never forget.

The first time I met a Pink girl was in a class of white walls and outdated Apple computers some time when I was younger. Back then she was just another girl with awkward smiles and glassy eyes but, come the Spring of the year we were in last year, we were friends.

To start at the finish is by no means logical but is a perfect beginning to this most effervescent of campus tales.

A sharp pinch of sunlight made its way from south of the border and woke me up that morning, on the day of independence and drinking. Downstairs there are already girls giggling and talking excitedly about the day’s proceedings. Somewhere in a parallel universe I like to call “still drunk from last night,” I look through the door and white light fills my weary eyes, stinging like an enthusiastic toddler asking its alcoholic parent to play in the park. And, like the crusty old eltern, I decide alcohol is the only way I can cope.  Four Loco’s, I hear, were banned a while back for being too energetically dangerous for consumption. The perfect companion for today. The Lemon flavor tastes like sugary vinegar but it soon has me boasting of getting an A, much to the annoyance of my two lady classmates that failed to oil up the professor with tales of the motherland.

As the crowd rolls in so do my eyes. Everyone has Corona and seems to be enjoying the tepid sun that tends to tease us in the early days of May. Brad wants to piss so I show him the toilet and feel like a good host.  Regrettably, I don’t remember much after that moment of English-esque butlermanship, although I understand the egg toss was a feat of major civil togetherness and exactly the kind of thing Monsieur Obama wants from his people.

Outside of this community of drunken egg flingers were the other people on 1st street. The great unknowns. One of whom is in fact a narcissistic little witch banshee Sarah Palin type character with a penchant for stealing crutches and re-claiming super soakers. Confronted with, “you do know you stole crutches from inside our house from a kid with a broken leg?” The black-haired midget golem replied, “I had no idea I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t realize!! What exactly did you expect the crutches were being used for, a circus act? Pushing buttons that are just slightly out of reach? Some kind of strange sexual fetish involving dogs? Haha, the dog thing comes to fore as a timely transition into the first time I imposed my somewhat distasteful humor upon the girls living behind that Pink Door.

It all started with a dog fight.  They say dogs resemble their owners. This big hulk of Great Dane, like its big hulk of an owner was all bark and, well, a little bit of a bite. The other dog was our friend. Like his owner.

Locked in tooth, with a nervous audience enjoying the show somewhat less than I imagine Mike Vick would, the dogs were pulled apart eventually but not without a healthy dose of snarling and rabid impetus on drawing one another’s blood.  After the scrap things settled down into a tranquility which often accompanies the soft pink hue that settles upon treetops and high stone at dusk in Charleston, IL.  

Sat on the porch outside the Pink Door.

The suggestion was made that one of the house’s patrons smeared peanut butter (im not sure what brand although, at just 99 cents at Country Market, I’m guessing it was Peter Pan) all over her naughty parts and ushered our friendly dog to, eh um, clean up. Poor humor by all accounts but still pretty funny at the time. Of course this was a joke and, although I’m not sure, it is unproven that the girl in question has any interest in canine fellatio, or any other bestial acts of intimacy for that matter.

We had fun that day but English humor of this character is not always reciprocated with such fervor. A few weeks later, as the stupor continued to fire on all cylinders, one too many insults finished with a frat boy requesting my fist make contact with his nose. Five minutes later blood adorned the walls, my arm and, crucially, his face.

I left that night by way of the Dish, a girl unparalleled in her absolute beauty inside and out. There are no words that wholly describe the way eyes sparkle like hers, how her inimitable lips curve or the way she understands the sound of silence. Love will do for now but that is another story altogether.

During the cadences of this rapturous score of collegiate notations quieter times befell 1st street and made space for me to meet another one of the Pink girls. Sitting on the porch as unimportant cars crawled by, we sat and thumbed through a relatively uneventful yearbook. We pointed and laughed, and judged people we didn’t know, and laughed, and read about sexual confessions from Eastern students, and laughed, and saw a certain cat, and laughed harder. The girl smiles as much with her light blue eyes as she does with her mouth. It’s infectious, warming and lovable, and unique to her. I have met people like her before, usually unbalanced people that understand the bottom so are keen to appreciate the top. My best friends all have it. My best friends also, in a strange coincidence, are all missing a parent by death or distance.  I have known the girl for just a month but I suspect she too understands, in some way, that good times should be cherished. You can see it in her light blue eyes.

Another one of these quiet days brought every Pink girl into 1522 for an apparent academic arrangement that I’m almost positive involved no studying. This is where I first began to understand the girl with the hidden smile. It happened like this:

My roommate: I love this show it’s so funny.

Bubbly Pink girl (we will get to her soon): ye, it’s hilarious I’m addicted to it.

Girl with hidden smile, who is better described as the devil’s advocate: That show is dumb I hate it!

My roommate: OK, sorry.

Devils advocate: I just…I don’t like it it’s stupid.

Her face solemn with a slight frown.

Me: Is it as dumb as when people smear peanut butter all over themselves and get a dog to…

Her enforced straight lips crack upwards enough to suggest laughter and her eyes dart a look of mischief at me.

A smile as unique, if not as forthcoming, as her wildcat friend.

There are two less well known Pink girls that I cannot write about because I don’t know them. One is nice and is in love with a Croatian Sensation while the other is blonde and told me she could get the states’ best lawyer on my side.

The Bubbly girl is as defiant as she is definitive, or maybe it’s the other way round. She greeted me on my stairs one morning, her wide eyes looking up at me as she untangled her contorted limbs upside down.  Despite its complexity that is exactly how the scene looked, with me on the top of the stairs completely baffled by how she managed to achieve such a funny pose. It turns out the bubbly girl often bounced into wonderful situations, innocently hiding her insight. Bubbly s sometimes used as a nice way of describing a dumb pretty girl who talks a lot. And I would like to pretend that this girl is exactly that, so we who know better can keep her magnificent heart for ourselves.

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